From the Library

[Biggles]

That same afternoon I blasted down the Pacific coast for a year of roaming the western U.S., drifting from town to town with only an extra change of clothes and a sleeping bag. Friends were off in college warning me on the dangers of motorcycling- I was never so content.
One accepts numerous risks when embarking on the two-wheeled path to salvation. We learn to tolerate unmerciful weather, from painfully blazing heat to tooth-clacking freezing cold. For the most part, we're invisible to other drivers, who run us over then claim, "Sorry, I didn't see the guy."
If that's not enough, as we lean blissfully through mountain curves, there's that nagging threat of what's around the next bend. Water, sand, or gravel spell loss of traction and an abrasive body-to-pavement slide as the layers of protection disintegrate, starting with our clothing, down to skin, meat, and bone.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p4

[Biggles]

On the other hand, the wind in our face combined with blood draining from our brains under hard acceleration toys with our reasoning. Or maybe it's being swept under the influence of inertia and centrifugal force in a fast hard lean through the curves of a well-engineered banked turn that keeps us gasping for more. Winding out through the gears on a high-performance motorcycle is rapture.
But adventure travel on a motorcycle is more subdued. And although it can be a roller coaster ride of surging adrenaline, that's due more to the danger of unpredictable consequences exploring regions and countries where little makes sense to the uninitiated and sometimes unwelcome.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p4-5

[Biggles]

One moment the air is damp and sweet with the fragrance of fresh cut fields. The next it is filled with angry flying insects swarming in a dark formation, obviously annoyed about running headlong into a pack of invading motorists. As they harmlessly bounce off my shirt and splatter on my helmet, I'm miraculously escaping without being stung. Suddenly, I feel a buzzing sensation of tiny furiously vibrating wings, right where I'm sitting, followed by several sharp stings in my left testicle.
The pain is incredible. Swatting the bee increases the pain. There is no shoulder to pull off on and I'm stuck between two giant tour buses trying to break the land speed record. One hand is down the front of my trousers groping through a manual checkup when the bus behind me decides to pass. I look up in time to catch an audience of fascinated tourists gawking at me, unaware of my predicament. As the bus slowly slides past, a few senoritas smile with a blush and men hoot while saluting with a thumbs-up.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p20

[Biggles]

The best part of the day is in the early morning when my mind is most alert and I'm freshly saddled up with my gear cinched down and rocketing past the last traffic signal out of some crowded Mexican town. Choking clouds of filthy exhaust fumes disappear as the sweetness of the countryside fills my soul. There is no greater feeling of freedom.
It's always a welcome relief to stop at the end of a long day's ride and relax in a friendly family-owned hotel with the promise of a refreshing shower and exotic meal. But nothing tops the exhilaration of taking to the open road before the brutal heat of day intrudes. It's like a pleasing mystery unravelling, the unknown evolving into reality as one bizarre scene after another reveals itself with as much casual grace as utter confusion.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p22

[Biggles]

I have not seen a car or human for hours. I daydream that I am the last man on earth. There is no hustle and nowhere I have to be. I can stop and dive into paradise, or continue slowly meandering, as a lazy leaf drifting down a twisting river, without worry. I can't recall what day it is; time is no longer a factor. I only think in terms of now. There is no before or after. I rejoice in the splendour of solitude, marvelling with the tropical sun. It's only early fall and I will travel through winter into spring, guided by summer rains of a distant southern hemisphere.
There is no place to be, no one to meet, and much to peer into. I'm often unsure of where I am but I know I'm always where I want to be. As in a dream, so deeply alone, my only companion is the shadow beneath my wandering spirit.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p23-4

[Biggles]

Incredible forested scenery unfolds as I wind back up through the steep rocky hillsides surrounding a crystal blue lake ringed by snoozing volcanoes and mountaintops hidden in the clouds. The old Indian warned that the road is rough and narrow- that was an understatement. Hairpin turns are so sharp and continuous it's impossible to shift out of second gear for almost seventy miles. The best thing about bandit country is that there's no traffic and I have the mountains to myself.
An hour into the ride, whatever sickness that has been lurking kicks in and soon I slump over my gas tank wrangling for balance. Although the mountains are chilly I get by in light gear while sweating profusely. It's better to stop and rest but I heed the Indian's warnings. In this isolated territory getting caught out alone is a bad idea.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p41-2

[Biggles]

When manufacturers call their rain suits waterproof, they lie. There is no rain suit made that repels water indefinitely. As any geologist will attest, water will ultimately have its way and travel where it wants. In this case, water wants to be inside my rain suit and make my situation miserable. Water has its way.
The initial phase begins with headwinds forcing chilling trickles around my rain suit collar and down my neck to the front of my chest, causing waves of muscle-tensing shivers. Next, persistent cross breezes push little streams around my wrists, past the cuffs and up arms. Drop by drop water seeps through the plastic zippers and to the brim with chocolate coloured muck.
Fortunately, this whole process requires a few hours, during which time I stay fairly comfortable. I started at three in the afternoon and it is now six in the evening and pitch black. I'm not only well soaked under the rain suit, but also visually impaired by darkness and freezing cold. Traffic is heavier than normal and the rain is only getting worse. The drenching is so strong that the only time it stops crashing straight down is when it blasts diagonally head-on. Combined with the wind, it feels like a crush of water pushing me backwards as though swimming upstream against a powerful current.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p66

[Biggles]

Because of numerous daily assassinations carried out in Colombia on motorcycles by two-man hit teams wearing full-faced helmets to prevent identification, legislators have created special laws. When riding a motorcycle here, everyone must wear a bright orange vest with license plate numerals written in big fluorescent numbers on the back and front. If caught not wearing this vest, you'll be treated as a potential assassin. This is deadly serious in Colombia, with warnings of certain arrest if even attempting to ride back from the airport to the hotel without a vest. There's no place nearby to buy one, so using a sheet of white paper, I write my plate number with a black marker on it and tape it to my back, hoping this will suffice until I find a shop to have a proper vest made. It works; none of the lurking motorcycle cops on street corners looks twice.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p76

[Biggles]

I am including only three excerpts from the kidnapping event, since it's not directly motorcycling action or philosophy.  It's included here since it's central to the book as per the title.

They grow annoyed by my answers and charge, "Mentiroso" (Liar). Next, the Comandante's assistant delivers a swift boot from behind to the side of my head, causing an explosive ringing in my right ear. I don't want to take a beating on the ground and try to get up, which only provides a better target. Thus far I had complied with all their orders and had not given them any reason for abuse. From their political ranting it's apparent they consider me as an American, their enemy and responsible for their misery. They take great satisfaction in venting their rage, laughing while they kick and stomp my chest and back. They tire of it after a minute then drag me back to the loft, untie my hands, and order me to climb up.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p93-4

[Biggles]

We march again for a few more hours to another confinement area where I am locked in an old abandoned wooden shed with nothing inside except a filthy cement floor surrounded by wasp hives and insect nests in the ceiling. These are the most hideous bugs yet, and they proceed to devour me without delay. The heat is unbearable. 
Sealed inside the well-guarded perimeter and left to do battle with aggressive critters, I'm unable to brush them off fast enough before reinforcements join in.
Guards deny permission to relieve myself as before; instead, they hand me an empty jug and order me to remain inside. There's nothing to do but stand and wait. If I sit, the bugs attack twice as fast and it's a constant battle swatting them off.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p100

[Biggles]

While waiting to be locked down after bathing, I lean against one of the wooden support posts holding up an outside wall of the ranchita when an unexpected explosion booms through the air. The noise is so loud I feel the concussion against my skin. Stinging debris sprays across the front of my body accompanied by the irritating acrid smoke of discharged gunpowder. My first thought is that someone had detonated a cherry bomb as the echo under the porch painfully resonates like a slap against my ears.
It takes a few moments to realize the pole I'd been resting against had disintegrated into wooden fragments and splinters across the front of my shirt and face. I'm baffled by what's happened until noticing one of the younger rebels, who had been carelessly cleaning his gun, sheepishly looking up at me with a "woops" expression.
Even stranger is my lack of reaction- I'm so numb over what has occurred in the past several weeks, I'm unfazed and merely shuffle back inside and fall asleep. Life has evolved onto a new level: I now exist within a psychological vacuum, without emotion, mentally withdrawing at every opportunity from this world of misery, my captors' and mine. They too, along with the local campesinos, live within a prison of despair.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p132-3

[Biggles]

Liberated from other people's time schedules, chronic delays, and bureaucratic complications, I tumble back joyously into the freedom of the road and excitement of adventure that only motorcycle travel can create. Dark moments are gone and negative images are on hold. I emerge from a foggy haze and what was so frustratingly dancing at the end of my fingertips is now in the firm grasp of my heart. Even the slow pace of traffic is welcome. Inquisitive children at gas stations, gently banked turns through the mountains, and the sweet smell of fresh-mowed meadows all remind me of why I'm here. Tantalizing exotic fruit peddled roadside next to open-air restaurants serving sizzling local meals cooked on open fires once again tease me with the urge to lay down another mile.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p190

[Biggles]

Ahead there's a string of monstrous semi-trucks spewing black clouds of filthy fumes big enough to command my immediate attention, and the race is on to the rapidly approaching curves. I'm back into the rhythm of duelling with multi-wheeled, rolling monolithic beasts hell-bent on ignoring little motorcycles. The lumbering danger quickens my pulse, reminding me that speed and agility are all that a motorcyclist has to compete with. As anyone who has ever travelled roads like these is well aware, size does matter.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p191

[Biggles]

Traffic in Peru lives up to its reputation as some of the wildest in South America. Drivers play a non-stop, nerve-racking game of bumper-car chicken. The rules: vehicles travelling in the same direction must maintain light contact, barely tapping the next car's fenders. Amidst the synchronized chaos, horns are used in the same way that motorists in other countries use their brakes. Travel reports indicate Argentina is even worse- I can hardly wait.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p199

[Biggles]

With nothing to hinder the relentless winds, blurs of blinding dust spin into malicious sandstorms, ending as unpredictably as they began. The abrasive crud accumulating on the outside of my body also accumulates inside my nose and throat. This irritates my sinuses but I'm more concerned about the air filtration system on the carburettor and effects of abrasive grit on the inside of my panting little engine.
Two-man teams of bored Transito police inhabit scattered isolated military outposts, sporadically flagging over unlucky motorists as a means to pay their rent. They usually wave me on: I'm too insignificant to bother with. If they do stop me, it's only to ask about my journey and relate a few tales of their own travels. Everyone is amiable in Peru, even the cops.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p200